


Bright Star

by Eureka11219



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:34:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eureka11219/pseuds/Eureka11219
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years ago, in the times of peace, before kaijus started emerging from the Breach, a Faerie promised the hand of her firstborn to the heir of the hunter who saved her.  This is the story of her half-blooded child's in a quest to honor her promise.  For a Faerie's word is immutable, and kaiju apocalypse or not, Chuck Hansen will marry the head of the Becket clan or die trying.</p>
<p>Attempted Fill for : http://pacificrimkink.livejournal.com/350.html?thread=1077598#t1077598</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: This is a WIP fill for a Pacific Rim kink meme prompt. http://pacificrimkink.livejournal.com/350.html?thread=1077598#t1077598
> 
> I have taken quite a bit of liberty with the prompt, so much so that I am not sure if this even counts as a fill anymore. For this reason, I feel it may be more appropriate to move it to AO3, although parts will continue to be posted anonymously on LJ. Please note that this story comes with a major angst and character deaths warnings.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, reveling in the gentle fingers threading through his hair, the lilting voice lulling him towards the land of dreams. The story is one he had heard many times before, a story of a great hunter battling fanged beasts, of a life-debt owed and a pact made. He knows it by heart now, can see it sometimes replaying in his mind’s eye in the dark watches of the night. He smiles and feels the warm tingle sparking across his skin. Someday, when he is stronger, when he has proven his worth, he will be guardian to the greatest hunter of all. It is his destiny, his right, his responsibility. Mum has given her word, and a faerie’s true promise is never meant to be broken.


	2. Innocence Lost

He doesn’t cry. The paramedics think he is in shock, thinks he doesn’t understand his life will never be the same. He chokes back a bitter laugh. He understands better than their pathetic mortal brains can ever comprehend. He glances up at Dad. The old man doesn’t cry either, but the maelstrom of grief and guilt swirling around them is palpable, so bitter and dark he can almost taste it. Mum is gone. Not dead, not in the way everyone seems to think, but lost to them all the same. He wants to tell his father, wants to share the one truth that can offer solace. But Dad is human and will never truly understand. He closes his eyes and feels. Loss, grief, anger, despair, he lets them flow pass until he finds the light. He can’t truly see pass the veil, his human-half weighed down by useless dark thoughts that made him weak. But he can feel it, can sense Mum among her people, glowing and radiant. She is where she belongs. A hand on his shoulder jolts him out of his trance. ‘Let’s go,’ his old man says, and he grimly nods. He will be strong and watch over his father as Mum once had. People look at him and say he is his father’s son; but they are wrong. He is his mother’s child. He is Fae.


	3. Impressions

He is on the Kwoon floor when he feels it for the first time, the sudden tug on the edge of his consciousness, intensifying with every beat of his heart, fueling the bone-deep need to reach out with every ounce of grace his half-blooded shell possesses and just *feel*. This is no time for such senseless pursuits, his mind knows, no time for fairy tales and happy endings. He is so close now, so close to becoming the co-pilot his father needs, the guardian Mum once believed he can become. Yet, the pull on his mind is like a siren’s song, a call reverberating through the very core of his immortal soul. It has been so long since he imagined himself the faerie bride of a great hunter, his magic a sword and shield wielded against creatures of the night. The time of hunters and fiends of legend is over; the kaiju are the monsters now. A heavy footfall jolts his mind back to the present, but it is too late. His skull explodes in pain and the world around him grows dim and hazy. Distantly, he can hear someone screaming, ‘Get the medics’. He feels the shaky hand upon his neck, hears his dad’s croaking voice ordering him to hang in there. More footfalls, something bright and hot flares against the darkness encroaching upon his mind; his intended is here. He breathes, gathers his courage, and…

“With all due respect, sir, I think the PDDC should reconsider developing the new Mark V in Australia if this is the best Sydney has to offer.”

It hurts, the cold cutting words, the harsh derisive scorn flowing from a mind he thought was destined to complement his. The shimmering hope, the bridge to his better, his stronger half falters, and when the darkness comes, he gives in and lets himself fall.


	4. Calling

Awareness returns slowly. With it, comes pain, sharp and throbbing, like a beast raging inside his skull, threatening to overwhelm his senses once more. Chuck groans. Concern for his well-being, warm and sincere, permeates the air and dampens the worse of the pain. His mind clears, and he can feel it again, the insistent pull stirring his faerie blood. He growls, willing his eyes to open so he can glare at the man who has trampled upon the last of his childhood dreams.

“I will buzz the doctor.”

The voice, it is different. It is softer, lighter, carefree in a way the one that rejected him earlier had not been. The soul feels brighter too, now that he is concentrating on it, young and hopeful in a way he himself has not been since he has taken on his mother’s mantle. His protective instinct flares; this, here, is the man he *wants* to guard. But he knows it is not to be. His hand has been promised to the head of the Becket clan; and he knows a spirit this innocent does not bear the burden of knowing all the evils that walks the earth amidst them unseen and now unchecked. He lets out a soft sigh and opens his eyes.

Golden, fair, eyes blue like a cloudless sky, Raleigh Becket is every bit the Adonis the media and the world adores. “You gave your father quite a scare. But you are a tough one, aren’t you?”

Chuck pushes himself up and sits, doggedly ignoring the wave of nausea the movement has prompted. He has never been big on manners, yet meeting Raleigh’s eyes as he grunts his assent seems paramount somehow.

“Listen, I’m really sorry about what happened.”

The faerie-human hybrid frowns and watches his visitor take a deep breath to steel himself for the task to come. “I *know* it’s our fault that you got hurt. We distracted you. I saw you freeze just as we walk in. And Yancy…”

He never gets to hear the rest of the apology as a team of doctors swarms into the room and descends upon him. It’s a miracle his skull was not crushed, they say; they need to do some more test to definitively rule out subdural hemorrhaging, they say; but their words barely registers. He watches Raleigh’s quiet retreat, follows the man’s movement with his gaze even as solid walls come between them.

It takes every ounce of his will to break himself out of his vigil. The younger of the Becket brothers is not his intended. The older one, the one who saw him bleeding on the ground and only cares enough to judge him as weak, that is the man he is destined to guard. A faerie’s word is inviolable; and no amount of hoping can change it.


	5. Anticipation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chuck is 16 in this chapter.

The briefing room quiets as he marches in with Max in tow and takes his seat beside his old man. It has taken over a year, but he has finally convinced everyone to equate him with the most egotistical and thankless individual in the Sydney Shatterdome. Max is the only one who seeks his company now; even Dad wants nothing to do with him outside of Striker and the Kwoon room. It is better this way, he thinks, he does not have time for distractions. He *has* to get stronger, to show the Beckets… no, not the Beckets - plural, just the *one* Becket - singular, the head of the clan, his intended. Raleigh is just, well, Raleigh.

He sighs. He already knows his assignment, has known since he felt a burst of panic from the LOCCENT earlier in the day. A Category VI kaiju has emerged from the Breach. Its heading were unknown then, but it stands to reason the scientists has finally managed to track its movements and locate a probable target. It's somewhere far enough away to not merit the blaring sirens and mad scramble to deploy, but close enough to require participation of the Sydney Shatterdome. Most likely Asia or South America, he thinks, a city without a Shatterdome of their own, which as a rule, calls for a multi-Jaeger deployment involving multiple Shatterdomes. He stamps down the sudden surge of excitement at the possibility of fighting at his intended's side. There is no reason for the PDCC to send Gipsy Danger all the way from Alaska; Jaegers from Hong Kong, Tokyo or Lima are the logical choices.

He leans down and scratches Max's head, feels Dad's sidelong glance, the wave of melancholy and helplessness and guilt and sadness entwining so tight and dense veiling the once shining affections. His old man is mourning, not for Mum, but for the sweet child he once was, for the innocence lost, the man he can now never become.

It hurts, the knowledge that he will, in a sense, forever be a disappointment, but he refuses to let it weigh him down. His nightly telepathy practice is paying off. He has always been able to sense emotions, to shift through a maelstrom to find a single thread, but now, if he concentrates, he can sense the associated thoughts, the cause and effect of a feeling from the one mind he chooses to touch.

His range has grown too; he can, if he puts his mind to it, reach out and feel a presence oceans apart, calm tempestuous dreams miles away. It is only pragmatic, he thinks, to familiarize himself with his intended, to acclimatize to the insistent tug of Becket’s soul on his. The disaster on the Kwoon floor the year past cannot be repeated; he will not be caught off-guard again. And if he happens to mistakenly connect with Raleigh instead of his brother at times, it is no more than a beginner's error, a failing on his part to discern two souls so alike but for the smallest of details. He has only *one* intended; and when he reaches his majority, he *will* marry him.


	6. Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my AU version of the Manila 2019 kaiju attack, where Striker Eureka, Gipsy Danger, and Horizon Brave were deployed. Incidentally, in the movie canon, this is also Gipsy's last battle before Knifehead.

The kaiju lets out a deafening roar, thrashing with all its might, threatening to tear Striker apart in its death throes. He has to hang on, has to contain the beast, has to hold it so it cannot deliver to others blows that only Striker can take. They are too close to the beast, he knows, just as his old man knows. They need to step back, to create space to engage the AKM launcher; but he can’t, he won’t, not when Striker’s sting blades are the only thing pulling the kaiju’s arms back as the chants of ‘Come on, Come on, Recharge, Damn it!” repeats over the comms.

Another pulse, another thrash, the kaiju’s arm crashes against Striker’s unprotected flank. He screams, his left side burning as the neuro-circuitry relays the impact. He feels his father reaching for him through the drift, willing him to see there is only one viable play; they *have* to let go.

He is too tired to fight the old man, stretch too thin between co-piloting Striker, tapping into the presence of his impulsive idiot of an intended and maintaining a mental wall between his human and faerie sides. So he lets Dad feels his weariness and his pain and mutters a broken “Please”.

“Son?” His father doesn’t understand, doesn’t know why he is so intent on protecting two hotshots who has rushed in and shot their deployment strategy to hell. But Dad will always be Dad, and no matter how difficult things get, how far apart they grow, the old man will always have his back. Together, they dig the blades deeper, slashing upwards, through bone and sinew until the arms battering against Striker’s side slowly still.

Another pulse soon hits the kaiju, a plasma shot in its gaping maw as its screams its last. The beast sags against their iron grip. The day is theirs. He feels his father’s searching gaze, knows there will be questions later. But for now, he revels in the quiet rush of magic arching through his veins. He has passed the test, perhaps not entirely on his own strength, but he has passed nonetheless. He is a full-fledged Faerie Guardian now. Majority or not, it is time to make his intentions known; it is time to claim his rightful destiny.


	7. Kiss

He takes a deep breath and knocks. It is now or never, he knows; Dad has a meeting with the Marshal, and Raleigh is still chatting with Gipsy’s chief engineer in the mess hall. This may be the only chance he has of catching his intended alone before they head back to their respective Shatterdomes. He waits, steadfast in his refusal to acknowledge the butterflies in his stomach. He tells himself he is a Ranger, a half-Faerie laying claim on his intended. He isn’t a fool-hearted, starry-eyed teenage boy, hasn’t been since the day Scissure attacked Sydney. This isn’t about love, or affection, or any of those warm fuzzy feelings he isn’t even *capable* of having anymore. This is about honor and proving his worth and fighting for what is rightfully his. He doesn’t need Becket to *care* for him; all he needs the man to do is accept him as Guardian and consummate their pact.

He knocks again, louder this time. He hears footfalls on the other side and a faint ‘Hang on a sec’. He stands a little taller and schools his expression into an arrogant smirk to put on an air of confidence he doesn’t quite feel. He can do this; he has come too far to falter now.

The door opens, and any words he may have prepared is singed from his mind at the sight of Becket wearing nothing but a towel, hair slick back and still damp from the shower. All he can do is just stand there, froze, gaping at the perfectly sculpted form on display.

He feels his intended hand on his arm. “You better come in.” The voice is amused, but kind, so different from the cold biting tone he remembers from their first meeting.

He nods dumbly, allows his intended to guide him as he carefully keeps his eyes downcast. His face burns with embarrassment; he can’t believe he has made a fool of himself in front of Becket again. It’s not as if he hasn’t seen another man naked before; he did go through Jaeger academy, and showers there are communal. But Becket is his intended, and as much as he hates to admit it, the thought of what has to happen in order to seal their pact makes him feel all flustered and nervous inside.

“Just make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

Becket disappears in the bathroom again, and Chuck looks around the small room and sits on the only surface available. Raleigh’s bed, he knows, can still feel the residues of the man’s boundless energy and enthusiasm under his fingertips. He tries not to think about Raleigh, the sincerity with which the man thanked him and Dad for having Gipsy’s back, the boyish dimples and brilliant smile that rouses his protective instinct as surely as the millions of faceless strangers that he as Ranger has sworn to protect. He cannot afford such distractions; Raleigh is not his to guard.

“I’m glad you came by. We need to talk.” Becket says as the man exits the bathroom, thankfully fully clothed this time, and takes a seat beside him.

“About?” He hates how tentative he sounds. He is assertive by nature; he knows his mind, and he makes sure that others know it too. But Becket seems a study in contradiction, exuding an aura that is at once fond and congenial yet tinted with the harshest of scorn. It perplexes his senses, leaves him feeling unsure and vulnerable like the child he hasn’t been since Mum left.

“I know what my dad demanded in payment for saving your mom's life. It’s a shit thing to do, even by his standards.”

His eyes widen in shock, the words sending a chill down his spine unlike any other. It makes no sense; how can Becket speak with such irreverence towards their pact, with so little regard for the honor code that governs their kind?

“So for whatever my word as his eldest son is worth, I’m releasing…”

His hands fly up to grasp Becket’s arms, propriety be damned, to halt the conclusion of the hateful sentence. He understands now, the tangled threads of his intended’s emotions, the anger at their parents for trying to force a union between them sight-unseen, the determination to protect them both from their unwelcome fate ordained by what his intended mistook for an archaic pact. “No!”

Becket stares at him in incomprehension but does not continue. He knows he sounds desperate, but he is beyond caring. Convincing his intended to *not* reject their pact is the only thing that matters now. “Your father didn’t make Mum do anything. As a Faerie, it is a great honor to be promised to the head of a line of great hunters. She wanted that for me.”

“*She* wanted! What about what *you* want? You don’t even know me. What if I’m a complete asshole?”

He basks in the fierce protectiveness emanating from his intended. It is so easy to sense now, all he needs to do is pull away the surface resentment and see. It has always been there, he thinks, the primary drive governing much of Becket’s actions. He smiles and says, “But you’re not, are you?”

Becket sighs, a wave of fond exasperation assaulting his senses. “God knows I tried to be, but you make it difficult.”

“You’re probably the only person in the world who’d say that.” He laughs, making light of a statement that hurts more than he will ever be willing to admit. 

His intended chuckles and moves to grace his cheek with a gentle touch. Holding his eyes with a serious gaze, the man says. “I can feel you sometimes, you know, at the back of my mind, telling me I’m not crazy after I see one of those *things* that no one else can see, telling me I'm not alone when they come in the darkness to haunt my dreams. And today, when we’re out there…”

He’s never been known for his patience, and the grudging affections coming from Becket is heady and intoxicating, urging him on against his better judgment. He is moving before he realizes it, his hands shifting to pull Yancy close as he leans in to press a kiss against the man’s lips. He’s never initiated a kiss or been kissed before, and he wonders for a second if he is doing it all wrong, or if his intended would push him again, or…

Then, Yancy responds, and cradles his neck, and coaxes his lips apart, and slips an inquisitive tongue into his mouth, and it’s too much, his senses overloading, every touch amplifying the primal urge to reach out and melds his mind to his intended's. They kiss and kiss, until they have to break for breath; and he rests his forehead against Yancy’s and makes his offer. “I am yours if you will have me.”

He can feel his intended’s desire warring with the innate resistance towards their union. He waits with bated breath; he knows, whatever decision Yancy makes, he will accept. His heart aches as his intended pulls away; his mind a jumble of emotions, longing, uncertainty, hope, a mirror of the sensations reverberating in the air.

“I can’t. Not yet. Not until we get to know each other better. And if you still want this then…”

“I will.” He swears, makes Yancy a promise of his own. This is no longer just a pact between their forebearers. He has given his word, and his word is his bond.

His intended chuckles, lips quirked into a heart-felt, relieved smile. He can feel that as much as Yancy may protest their fate, the man wants him. “We’ll talk when you’re older.”

He nods, reluctantly stands and forces himself to turn away. He may not have accomplished what he has set out to do; but he has made his intentions known and has not been rejected. Someday, he will be old enough to convince Yancy he knows what he wants. Someday, they will be together as they are meant to be.


	8. Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the prelude to what must happen for this story to develop into the fill for the Chuck/Raleigh arranged marriage prompt. I am so sorry!

He knows he has a stupid grin on his face, but he cannot help it. The CNN wants to do a live Q&A with the heroes who took down the biggest kaiju to ever emerge from the breach; and the PDCC has deemed it too good a PR opportunity to miss. Typically, Dad takes care of such things. Although he has proven himself a very capability pilot, his youth remains a point of contention galvanizing the public. Where some sees a boy triumphing against all odds to protect their world, others see a child soldier brainwashed to die and kill on command. The PDCC has the press under a moratorium where he is concerned until he reaches 18, and violators are prosecuted to the strictest letter of the law. As it is, the public doesn't have a face to go with the name Chuck Hansen; all they have are some blurry telephoto shots who can be just about anyone. Typically, he is more than happy with the situation; he doesn’t have the time to waste on entertaining the media like a parrot reciting lines written by their PR team. But a special on MN-19 isn’t complete without *all* the pilots, and that includes one Yancy Becket, who he’d move heaven and earth to see in person again.

Things have been progressing well since they’ve come to an understanding. Now, when he reaches out to touch Yancy’s mind, he can feel the man welcoming his magic, sending him images and thoughts through their link. It’s silly for most parts, a condensed view into a slice of life in the bustling Alaska Shatterdome; but sometimes, his intended shares a glimpse of the burden that only a hunter bears, a hint of vulnerability hidden under layers of confidence and charm that makes him want to drop everything and fly to the man’s side. So in the grand scheme of things, he thinks, pitching a fit huge enough to move even Marshall Pentecost into letting him go to LA with Dad to make an earlier-than-expected press debut isn’t very drastic at all.

He marches in sync with his old man towards their transport. In less than 24 hours, he’ll be reunited with his intended. He knows Yancy wants to play tourist with him after the Q&A the mental image the man has sent before drifting off to sleep is every bit as ridiculous as it is sweet. Watching the sunset under the Hollywood sign is simply *not* the kind of thing Jaeger pilots do; but if that’s what his intended wants, he supposes he can live with it.

He settles in his seat and pointedly ignores the puzzled glances Dad keeps throwing his way. He supposes he will have to talk to his old man at some point; but he can’t exactly explain the marriage pact Mum made with the Beckets, and even if he can, he has a feeling Dad won’t understand. Heck, even Yancy doesn’t understand, and Yancy is a hunter and should know better. No, he can’t tell Dad the truth, and without premise, his desire to wed the older of the Becket brothers sounds like a teenage crush millions of girls his age share, and as much as he is willing to make exceptions where his intended is concerned, he has his pride and he just *can’t*…

His thoughts are derailed by a jolt of excitement blazing through his link to his intended. He growls; he *hates* it when this happens, when Raleigh, like a burst of unstoppable energy, tactlessly intrudes upon the private bond between Hunter and Faerie and floods it with childish enthusiasm. Ever since he and Yancy have come to an understanding, he’s taken extra care to sever all ties with the younger Becket. But Raleigh’s presence is like a leech, impossible to dislodge, drawing his magic in with its indomitable innocence.

He takes a deep breath, calms his mind, and directs his focus towards the one he guards. He feels Yancy’s mind slowly clearing, subconsciously aligning with his as wakefulness descends. A kaiju, category 3, Gipsy is needed on deck. He frowns, sends his concern, and feels Yancy's quiet confidence despite warning the younger Becket not to get cocky. An image, meant only for his mind's eye, soon follows, a soft curve of lush lips that stole his breath not two months ago. ‘Stop worrying,’ his intended’s voice echoes in his mind, ‘it’s not our first rodeo’.

He knows the Becket brothers are good pilots, knows they have four kills to their name. But he also knows they can be impulsive and reckless. They almost died in their first time out against Yamarashi, would have died in Manila if he and Dad hadn’t been there. He can’t help but be worried, can’t help but want to be there, in Striker, fighting by Yancy’s side. He forces himself to close his eyes, and thinks of the kiss they shared, of all the silly little things his intended has shown him. He accepts his worries and lets them flow through him, finding at its source a blossoming affection he'd never thought himself capable of feeling, a frail yet sure hope for a brighter future that strengthens his magic. Consummated pact or not, he is Yancy’s Guardian; one way or another, he will fight by his intended’s side.


	9. Cataclysm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: major angst and canonical character death. This chapter was very difficult for me to write. I am sorry, but it has to happen.

Everyone knows a Jaeger is only as good as its pilots - the better the sync between co-pilots, the faster the relay times between command and movement. But what the human eye cannot see are the waves flowing from each pilot, pooling in the Pons before melding into a single stream strong enough to move their Jaeger’s gargantuan limbs, waves that, with the right touch, can be amplified and coaxed into resonating from the start. These are things only the Fae can see; and though seeing comes naturally to him, shaping his magic to complement a drift that isn't his own does not. His head aches from the strain, but he pushes on until he brushes gently against on the bridge linking the Becket brothers’ minds. He must be careful now, he knows, the goal is to remain invisible and silent, to augment the drift without shifting its alignments.

He lets himself be pulled from his reality into the rainy scene in his mind’s eye. He can feel the shared adrenaline rush from the Beckets as the kaiju emerges from the deep. The brothers duck to avoid a decapitating swipe from the kaiju’s claws, and he puts every ounce of his will into ensuring Gipsy’s immediate compliance. He groans from the effort, as he sends out a pulse of magic with the Beckets' every move to push Gipsy to the limits of her speed and agility as the Jaeger dodges again and fights back with punches of her own.

He is vaguely aware of Dad shifting beside him, hears in a distance a concerned voice asking if he is alright. He tunes out the distraction, narrows his focus onto the fight and the fight alone. He feels Yancy engage the plasma canon, hears the kaiju scream, and revels in the silence that follows. The night is theirs.

He opens his eyes, sees his old man hovering over him. He watches as Dad reaches out as if to place a hand on his forehead and withdraws before the contact is made. He supposes he deserves this; he is so bent on proving himself his father's equal that he has the old man convinced attempts at comfort will not be welcomed. He bites his lip, racks his brain for something to say, but comes up empty. For all his gifts at sensing emotions, he has never been any good with acknowledging, let alone expressing, his own. Something along the lines of doctors making the worst patients, he thinks, because knowing too much makes it near impossible to take anything on faith.

Still, he *needs* to acknowledge Dad’s concern, and so he does what he supposes is a typical thing for him to do. He scowls at his old man and snaps, “What?”

Dad’s response is lost as his mind is yanked from the safety of the plane into the freezing Alaskan night. Pain, his left arm is burning, Raleigh... he has to help Raleigh... He does what he can, subtlety be damned, and surges full force into the drift to dampen the feedback from the Jaeger to the younger Becket. Yancy knows he is here now; he can feel his intended homing in on his presence, drawing strength from it to raise Gipsy’s right arm and charge her plasma cannon. They are together; they can still do this. The kaiju surges forth again and impales Gipsy with its claw. He channels all the feedback to himself this time; he isn’t piloting; it doesn’t matter if *he* can’t think straight from the pain. He feels Yancy bend his elbow and position the cannon directly above the kaiju’s head. The controls flicker, the cannon is charged but will not fire.

No, no, no, no, no, that is the only thought echoing in his mind as the beast slams Gipsy back and takes a swing at the Conn-pod. He hears the screech of metal being torn apart, the quiet voice of his intended telling Raleigh to listen. Then, there is pain, so much pain, and fear and despair, but underneath it, clear as a beacon in the stormy night, is an image of him and Yancy resting forehead to forehead, a voice entrusting Raleigh's life to his care. He wants to scream in denial, to reach out and hold onto Yancy and never let go, but he doesn’t. Instead, he puts everything he has into bearing the neural load his intended once bore. He has already failed Yancy in all the ways that matters; he'd die before failing to honor the man's last wish too. 

A soul-crashing emptiness descends as the cacophony that is Yancy’s dying thoughts fades to nothing. He hears Raleigh screams at the loss, feels the younger, no, now the only, Becket struggles to transfer the controls to his right hand, to take his fallen brother’s place. The kaiju pulls apart another piece of the Conn-pod. It stares Raleigh in the eye and roars. Raleigh roars back and set the canon to overload. Seconds pass, the cannon crackles and fizzles. No! He will not lose Raleigh too! He wills with every fiber of the being for the plasma cannon to fire, feels something give in his mind as a flash of light explodes in the night sky. The kaiji falls back, its head blasted open. 

He thinks he should feel something at this supposed victory, but he just feels hollow. He senses Raleigh’s confusion, knows he should try to soothe it, and hates the obligations of guarding someone he has not chosen in a way he never had before. So he does what he does best, ignores the urge to indulge in useless sentiment and concentrates on helping Raleigh move Gipsy one step at a time back to shore. And when the Jaeger sets foot on dry land, and the comforting darkness of oblivion beckons, he lets himself fall.


	10. Reconciliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating for so long. I needed to get away from the angst for a little; and then things got ridiculously busy. This is a bridging chapter of Chuck being introspective, in which nothing much happens. So I'm apologizing in advance.

He wakes. He glances around the empty hospital room and reaches out with his senses and… Nothing, there is nothing but silence and emptiness, and he thinks it fitting that he is no more than a mere human now, that the price for his failure is his magic. He does not deserve the powers of a Guardian Faerie, not when he has failed so completely in protecting the one he is destined to love. He is not sure how long he has sat there, alone and unmoving, his mind too numb under the weight of the strange nothingness to grieve for what has once been, when his father burst into the room. 

He watches the old man’s approach with disinterest; he has no worth to prove, no approval to seek, not anymore. He freezes in surprise as Dad gathers him into a fierce hug, and he finally understands just how much his father loves him still, unworthy though he may be, feels the undimmed affection in the wetness of Dad’s tears against his cheek, sure and real, in a way his magic or the drift has never shown him before. 

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” his father says in a small broken voice, a whisper in his ear that strikes him to the core. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it with every fiber of his being, for his selfishness in his need to prove himself worthy, for all the times he tries to be Dad’s equal when he should be his father’s son. 

A comforting hand reaches up to stroke his hair. Mum has been the last person to comfort him thus; he never thought he’d ever feel such tenderness again. His throat closes and he hears his dad says, “Hey, it will be okay. We’ll figure something out.”

He wants to ask how can anything be fine again now that Yancy is gone; but he doesn’t. Instead, he sits, motionless and silent, revels in the gentle touch upon his head, lets it soothe the void losing his intended has left behind. 

“You’re always good with the tech. The crew will be happy to have you join them.” 

He frowns in puzzlement, the implications of Dad’s statement bringing forth an unnamed fear in his mind. Reluctantly, he moves away to look his old man in the eye. “What do you mean?”

“You had a seizure, son. The doctors said it’s a delayed stress response from piloting a Jaeger at your age. They told me you might not wake up again…”

Dad looks away, tries to hide the new sheen of unshed tears prompted by the memory of believing him lost, and Chuck cannot stop his hand from reaching out and pulling his father close again. Forehead to forehead, like he and Yancy once were only months before, and can never be again, he thinks with a pang, and whispers, “I’m alright now.”

His father takes a deep breath and gently pulls away. He shivers, the loss of contact chilling him like a physical force. “No, son; the doctors said even if you wake up, you can’t pilot anymore. The strain will kill you.”

“That’s bullshit!” He hates the way his father flinches at his outburst. He knows he is being selfish, knows he has no right to continue protecting the masses when he has failed the one he is destined to guard. But he has already lost the magic he inherited from Mum, he can’t lose his place by Dad’s side too. 

“Chuck…”

“I’m your co-pilot, dad! They can’t just ground me!” He tries not to panic, tries to think of arguments that will convince his father to ask the higher-ups to re-consider, but all his mind can come up with is ‘no, no, no, no, no’. The desperation and the despair, the feeling of losing something he cherishes and not being able to do a single thing about it, it’s like he’s failing Yancy all over again. 

“They already have, son. I’ve been testing candidates for the past week.”

A week, he has been out for over a week. He imagines his father’s and his roles reversed, feels a wave of guilt for putting the old man through such grief. But at the same time, the words gives him hope. He knows his father is emotionally closed off, knows how reluctant his old man is at letting others in. Drift compatibility is not one of the Hansen men’s strong suits; and even with all their shared memories, all the emotions that are there but left unsaid, it has taken a lot of work and more than a little dose of Fae magic on Chuck’s part to be Dad’s perfect complement. 

No matter how many candidates they test, there will never been anyone else compatible enough with his old man to bring out Striker’s full potential. Granted, without magic, he can never be as good a co-pilot as he once was, but he still knows all there is to know about Jaeger battle tactics, Dad’s fighting style and Striker’s capabilities. He is still the logical choice, if only he can make his father see it. He takes a deep breath and wills himself to calm. He may be a failure in all the things that matter, but he isn’t going to roll over and give up without a fight. “And how’s that going?” 

His father doesn’t answer the challenge in his gaze with the typical fire and admonishment he’s grown accustomed to. Instead, Dad sighs and grimaces, an expression that adds years to the old man’s already careworn face. “It doesn’t matter, son. If they can’t find anyone to be my co-pilot, I will resign and make way for a compatible pair of new graduates. I will not risk losing you again.”

He tries to protest, but Dad silences him with a haunted look that breaks what’s little left of his heart. “I saw your brain scans when you were brought in. Everything was lit up like a Christmas tree, like that first Jaeger test pilot who died from neural overload. It’s worse than the scans from pilots who had jockeyed solo.” 

Jockeying solo…Raleigh… His mind latches onto the name, an anchor against the still-swirling grief, someone who is now his to fight for. He has promised; and though he may be of no use to Raleigh now, he owes it to Yancy to at least try. He averts his gaze in fear of the explanation Dad is within rights to demand, and asks, voice soft and hesitant, a shadow of his usual brash confident self. “How is he?”

A plethora of emotions flits through Dad’s face before it settles upon a mild bemused smile. His old man knows him better than anyone, is aware he sometimes has a knack for inexplicably *knowing* things that weren't any of his business. But more than that, Dad is not stupid; his father has realized since Manila that the Beckets are special to him, even if the old man doesn’t understand why. Dad knows there's only one person he can be asking after. “He’ll live. He will need physical therapy when his arm heals; but his brain is surprisingly intact.”

“That's good. Is the Marshall still mad?” He remembers how angry Pentacost sounded over the coms, hopes Raleigh will not be sacrificed as the scapegoat for the loss of a million-dollar Jaeger. Yes, the Beckets disobeyed an order; but that wouldn't have made a difference. It’s not the brothers' fault that the kaiju isn’t as mindless as everyone believes, that the beast is capable of ambush and adjusting to Gipsy’s attacks and hitting where it hurts most.

He sees the question itching to spill from his father’s lips and is grateful for Dad’s restraint. There is no answer he can give that is believable, and with his magic gone, there is no point in telling the unlikely truth. He waits, smiles his thanks in a way he has not allowed himself to in years. He has enough regrets; if only he had been stronger, or smarter, or quicker, or more careful… He won’t have pushing Dad away be one of his regrets too, not when he still has a chance to fix things between them. 

Dad sighs and reaches forward to ruffle his hair. He basks in the show of affection and lets his smile grow. Part of him feels guilty for indulging in the warmth that is seeping deeper into his soul to counter the dark emptiness within. Nothing has changed; he has still failed and Yancy is still gone. But he is pragmatic at heart, has been since he lost Mum, and he knows wallowing in misery will not change the past, nor will it help him play the role others *need* him to play. His soul will always ache from losing the bond he shared with his intended, but he knows he is not alone; and as long as someone he loves needs him, fae or not, he *will* find a way.


	11. Places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating for so long. I haven't abandoned the story; I have just been extremely busy. I also apologize for the lack of Raleigh in this part (and the next). Chuck needs time to get into the right frame of mind. Then I swear it will be proper Raleigh/Chuck from there =)

He watches from the shadows. Thrust, parry, spin, sweep, as quickly as the session begins, it is over. He takes a calming breath, tampers the foolish hope that refuses to fade despite the loss of his magic and the emptiness in his heart. This is the last of the candidate – they are out of options. Silent as a ghost, he moves and stands on the threshold of the Kwoon combat room. No one notices; all eyes are on the Marshall. A decision needs to be made. The world cannot afford to wait much longer. They need to be ready for the next Kaiju to emerge from the Breach. They need Striker Eureka. Now is the time for him to step up once more and take charge of his own destiny. “Permission to enter, sir?”

Once upon a time, the combat room was his domain, his to enter as he pleases, but no longer. Knifehead has taken not only his magic, his chance of ever knowing love; it has also robbed him of his place in the world, the only life he knows. He has been cast aside to make room for the potential candidates, Rangers who aren’t broken in ways that can never be mended, promising pilots whose best is yet to come. 

He sees heads turn towards him, hears the murmurs raging through the crowd. He is almost glad he can no longer feel the scorn of the masses. He tunes out the distraction, keeps his eyes on the Marshall in a level stare. There are only two people in the room whose opinions matter, two men with the power to dash his hopes of picking up the broken pieces of his life in the only way he knows how. 

“You are aware of the doctors' reports?”

A question, not an outright refusal, it is a good sign. Even with magic, the Marshall is a difficult man to read. But he knows the man understands better than any that desperate times call for desperate measures. The man will not deny him the choice that is by right his to make, not now, not when the alternative is putting a second-rate team into their best Jaeger when the PDCC desperately needs a symbol the world can rally behind, a show of strength that can restore the shaken faith of the masses. “Yes, sir.”

“Piloting again may kill you.”

A clarification, a precaution to make sure he knows the risks. He pulls himself straighter as the implication sinks in. The Marshall is considering it as a possibility. He pushes down the surge of relief coursing through him; the battle is only half over. He sees Dad move closer to the Marshall, sees the clenched fists, the deepening frown. He does not need magic to know what his old man will say, to know Dad’s new-found paternal instincts is perhaps the most formidable challenge he faces in this quest to regain his place by his father’s side. He steels himself for the objections ahead and says his piece. “It’s a risk I am willing to take, sir.” 

He watches Dad’s expression harden. They have been through this many times before, the two of them, over the past two weeks. Nothing is wrong with him, he will say, every test the doctors has done after the initial scans has come back perfectly normal; and Dad will argue that normal people do not go into seizure on planes and show signs of massive neural overload. He can still fight, he will insist; and his old man will smile and ruffle his hair and tell him there are other ways he can help fight the Kaiju. He has come to realize that it will not be logic or reason that will sway his father, that in the end, it will have to come down to trust. He squares his shoulders and waits.

Dad turns towards the Marshall. “You know my position on this matter. I will not accept my son as co-pilot.” 

Of all the words Dad can choose, the old man has to pick the ones that hurt him the most. Ever since he lost Mum, he has strive to be what his father needs: an independent child who doesn’t demand affection, an equal who can share the load of piloting a Jaeger. To hear Dad’s refusal to accept him, the words sting even if he no longer doubts his father’s love. The blossoming hurt makes it easier to play the part of the egotistical jerk everyone knows him to be, to say the words he has planned to say. He turns to his father and smirks, “Well, I guess you are stepping down as Striker’s pilot then?” 

Turning to the Marshall, he allows his grin to turn feral. “My old man isn’t the only one with experience piloting Striker. With your permission, sir, I’d be more than happy to test the candidates. Unlike my old man, I’m actually pretty good at this compatibility thing. But then, I think you already know that.” It is a bluff, of course. He no longer possesses magic, can no longer touch the mind of an opponent, anticipate their moves and make his to match. He can never be the Jaeger pilot he once was. But this penance, like his shame of failing to protect his intended, no one will ever know. 

He watches Pentacost frown, knows the man is a commander above all else and will do what is best for the PDCC, friendship with his father be damned. Dad knows too; it is clear in the desperation of his old man’s voice. “No! I won’t…”

“You can’t stop me, Dad. It’s my choice!” He stops waiting for permission and walks into the room, striding towards his father and the Marshall with single-minded purpose. He stops in front of Dad, lets his expression soften, and quietly makes his plea. “I can do this, Dad. Trust me.”

He watches a plethora of expression flits across his father’s face, wishes he can still sense the emotions and thoughts behind each shift, can feel an inkling of whether he has said enough to persuade Dad to give him a chance. But as it is, all he can do is wait and remind himself to breathe and place his trust in his old man. He has to believe Dad will not reject him, unworthy as he is. Dad lets out a deep sigh and gives him a small nod. He fights the urge to grin and fails. Even if he will never truly recover from losing Yancy, he has found his place in the world again.


End file.
